Free Pottery

I needed to get away from Avis. I normally hadn't gone with her on her buying sprees for the boutique gift shop we owned and she ran in the well-heeled Buckhead suburb of Atlanta. I tried to keep busy managing the tennis program at Georgia Tech. I'd been a top twenty professional once and still played doubles in tournaments when I could get a partner willing to chase the balls down. At nearly thirty-five I wasn't up to that anymore. I had to rely on a power backhand and placement.

That's what I taught at Georgia Tech. Power backhand and placement, and I always had a student or two willing to show me power and placement of another kind when Avis was off on her buying sprees.

For some reason I'd lost my reason and agreed to go to Greece with her in search of exotic pottery for the store. A week of her yapping and arguing with Greek merchants had given me a headache. I volunteered to canvas the northern, Turkish coast of Cyprus, alone. Getting into that enclave was such a hassle and required such a convoluted travel schedule that Avis let me go by myself.

What Avis didn't know, though, was that I had been given some very good recommendations on where to stay and what to do in Turkish Cyprus-and that ever since that Turkish exchange student, Erdiz, had shown me that masterful backstroke of his the previous summer, I had been dying to have another young Turkish man between my thighs.

I arrived in Turkish Cyprus on a plane from Istanbul, having already made reservations at a gay boutique hotel east of Kyrenia on the northern coast. I hadn't given Avis anything but a name and a number and she was so wrapped up in herself that I knew she wouldn't check the hotel out-in fact that she wouldn't try calling me at all. The hotel consisted of six separate villa-style suites cascading down the Kyrenia mountainside below the artists' enclave of Bellapais and toward the Mediterranean coast. The rooms of the hotel clustered around a series of terraces and a swimming pool.

The man at the desk when I checked in, a heavily tanned, solidly built, muscular man in his fifties with a white-toothed smile, wavy gray hair on his head, and salt and pepper hair curling at the neckline and armpits of his athletic T-shirt, asked me if I was in Cyprus on business or for pleasure. I answered, "Both, I hope."

"I assume you know what sort of hotel this is," he asked, with a guarded smile this time.

I answered that I did, that it had been recommended to me by a previous pleased guest, and that I hoped that would be the pleasure part of my trip. I added, though, that I was here to buy pottery in bulk for a boutique in the states.

He gave me a big smile, a wink, and a second, lingering look.

He had a slight, young Turkish man lead me to one of the small villas, which was one large room, with full plate glass at the end pointed to the sea and a bath on one side and small kitchenette on the other side at the opposite end, with the entrance foyer between them.

The young man walked with mincing steps in front of me. He was close to being beautiful rather than handsome. Somewhat androgynous, but arousingly so, I'm sure, for anyone aroused by such a type. This didn't really include me, though; I prefered muscle men who would use me. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and trousers that were almost transparent. He had thong briefs on underneath. And he was barefoot.

When we arrived at the villa and he'd done the obligatory instructions on what was what and how it worked, he asked me if there would be anything else he could do for me-anything at all. It was quite obvious that he was offering himself to me.

I told him that he was quite handsome, but that he wasn't really what I was looking for.

He took it well. He asked me what I was interested in, and I saw no reason not to tell him directly and in detail. I was to find that all Turkish men took it well. I was also to find that if they saw something they liked, they took it-and they usually took it well.

My first experience of that came not more than two hours later. The invitation of the swimming pool and the dark-blue sea beyond were too enticing, and I changed into a Speedo and took my sunglasses, a book, and towels out to the pool and claimed a lounger.

I was the only one there, except for an older man across the pool and one terrace down who was availing himself of the hospitality of the young bellhop who had offered himself to me, without luck. They were entwined on a lounger, with the guest-who was probably northern European and whose body was going to fat-huffing and puffing as he fucked the young Turk.

I tried to ignore them and to get interested in my book and taking the sun's rays. I hadn't been there very long, though, before the man who had checked me in-who I was to learn was the owner of the hotel-put me in the shadows by standing between me and the sun.

He was a fine figure of a man. In fact, other than age, he was very much like what I had told the bellhop what I was interested in. He now was without his T-shirt. He was muscular, with a barrel chest, and his torso and arms were quite hairy. My tennis player, Erdiz, had been hairy too. It was part of what I enjoyed about him. Erdiz was much younger and trimmer than the man standing before me. He was also much more handsome of face. But this man had a rugged charm about him. And that ready smile. And his hands were big and his fingers long and thick. And I looked down at his toes in his open-toed sandals. They were thick and long too, and hair covered.

"I am Karamat," he said. "We met at the reception desk."

"Yes we did," I answered

"I own the hotel. I sent Musa with you to your room, but he said you were not interested-at least not in him."

"Musa is very nice," I answered. "But, no, he is not what interests me. He seems to be busy now."

We both looked over at the other lounger. Musa was on his chest, with his midsection and legs in the air. The northern European was holding Musa's legs at his side and fucking the young man like he was fucking a wheelbarrow.

"You must like men inside you then," he said rather matter-of-factly. "And it's a fine position. You should try it."

"Yes, I do like men inside me. And maybe someday I will try that," I answered in the same vein.

He sat down on the lounger beside my thigh then, leaning over me, with his hand down beside my opposite side. "Would you like me to suck and fuck you, then? I assure you that I do it very well. Do you like Turkish men. Not boys, men."

"Yes," I said. "I like Turkish men very much. And before you ask, I like hairy men. But I've only had younger men."

"Bah. What do younger men know about fucking other men? You need to be at least fifty to do it well, to make men beg for it again."

"I've always thought that the second fuck was nicer than the first," I said. "You have your hand on my cock." And he did; he was lightly massaging my basket.

"Do you mind?"

"No. It feels good."

"Do you want to see what I fuck with?"

"Sure. Why not."

Karamat stood and dropped his shorts to the ground. I gasped at the size of him. He was in half erection. And the hair on his dark brown body was salt and pepper everywhere but on his head, which was gray, and his pubes, which were still black.

"See, my head is old, but my cock is young," he said. "The hair tells you." And then he laughed. "The best for you. My head knows what to do; my cock can still do it."

"That's nice to know."

"I suck and fuck you now, yes? I make your trip worthwhile."

I smiled and lifted my hips off the surface of the lounger. He leaned down and pulled my Speedo down my legs.

"Very nice," he said, giving what Turks must use for a wolf whistle, making a popping sound from his mouth with his plump thumb. "Many men fuck you? Your hole tight or slack?"

"Not many-and usually with weeks or months between one and the next. Tight, I would guess. Does it make a difference?"

"If slack, I have ways to tighten it up. Tight is good. You feel it good. You not afraid?" he asked. He was holding his cock and waving it at me.

"Yes, of course I'm afraid of what you're waving at me. But that's part of the enjoyment, isn't it."

"I like you. You're not shy. I give you good fuck, I think. It's always better to take it with joy," he said, with a broad smile on his face.

He fished around in the pocket of his shorts and brought out a tube of lubricant and three condom packets.

"Three?" I asked in mock shock.

"You said the second is better than the first, so we see what three is like." He was smiling again.

"We'll see about that," I said, with a laugh.

He sat back down on the lounger, opened the lubricant, and took some in his hand. Then he leaned his face over my groin, took the bulb of my cock in his mouth, and started to suck. I moaned and ran the fingers of both of my hands into his hair. I had every intention to get as much enjoyment out of this as he would give me. One of his hands went under my thighs, and I felt his lubricated fingers at my hole. He licked up and down my shaft and then took it all in-once, twice, three times. I shuddered and lifted my hips off the lounger. He had moved a finger deep inside me.

I moaned deeply. It was obvious that he could give me much enjoyment.

He came up for air and said, "Yes, very tight. I like tight. Like taking a virgin. But we loosen it up a little, I think. You enjoy it more." He took one of my legs and lifted my ankle to his shoulder and then went back to sucking the bulb of my cock and worrying my hole with his lubed finger. Then two fingers, and he was moving them in and out, finger fucking me. His tongue was flicking my piss hole, and I was groaning and writhing under him.

"Young men do this to you?" he asked when he came up for air.

"No," I answered. "They are more direct and more insistent. They focus on themselves, their own needs."

"Ah, older men like me-and soon you-know how to savor it. How to have more pleasure; but more, how to give pleasure. And you are a guest here. We work to your pleasure."

Three fingers and I was grunting and groaning. His mouth was pumping down on my shaft. Quicker and quicker. I came in a flood into his mouth.

"Sorry," I whispered. "It was too good."

"Just one," he said with a laugh. "I make you come four times. Each one better than the one before."

He lifted the hand that he'd been fingering my hole with and flashed four fingers. He slowly and with a wink inserted each finger in is mouth, in turn, and sucked them.

"Oh, god," I croaked.

"Now me. First one very businesslike. You like second, so first one just to put us both in the mood." He stood up from me, straddling the lounger and my thighs and made a show of rolling a condom on his cock and lathering it up with lube.

"First time is for conquering," he said. "Once you are mine, we make love. Or maybe you don't-"

"Stop talking and fuck me," I said. "Yes, hard and deep. Take no prisoners. Make me feel it. Use me." I spoke in a low growl that I didn't recognize as my voice.

He gave me an intense look, grabbed my ankles and spread and raised my legs, pulling my pelvis up off the lounger as well. I rolled it up. He positioned the bulb of his cock at my entrance. I grunted and groaned as he worked the bulb inside.

And then he stopped, leaving his bulb inside the entrance, while I adjusted to it and tried my best to pull it further in with the muscles of my sphincter. This was working, he slowly was moving inside.

"Ah, good. You are good at this. I think we both will take our pleasure from this," he murmured. "But you are too anxious. More pleasure if you know your need for it enough to beg for it."

I began to pant, to beg for it. I scrabbled for his nipples through the matting of hair on his chest, trying to provoke him to plunge into me. He was smiling more cruelly now.

"Shit. Fuck! Give it to me!"

"We will see if a young man can do this for you."

I cried out as he plunged down, down, down. Out and then plunge, again. I cried out again and raised my pelvis to him. When he'd bottomed this time, he held deep inside. I plaintively begged him to fuck, pulling at his body hair, raising my mouth to his nipples and sucking hard, getting my hands around on his buttocks and squeezing the meaty globes and trying to pull him deeper inside me. I beat on his chest with my fists.

God, I wanted him to fuck me hard-more than I'd ever wanted in a fuck before.

He pulled away from me, and slipped out. Then he rose up on his feet, his legs straddling the lounger, and flipped me over. He grabbed my legs, pulling me up to where only my chest and cheek were on the surface of the lounger. With a laugh, he plunged back into me with his cock, and began wheelbarrow fucking me like I had remarked on about the fat guy and androgynous bell boy across the pool. I grabbed the upper legs of the lounger, hanging on for dear life, and cried out my passion while he pumped me hard and deep, not stopping until I had come again.

Karamat let me collapse on my belly on the lounger, and he came down, full length, on top of me. He had come too. I was so absorbed in my own ejaculation that I don't know if we came together or he came first or after.

I felt him go soft inside me while he ran his hands over my body and nibbled at the hollow of my neck. He moved down my body, kissing as he went, until he was crouched behind me. He tongued and nibbled at my buttocks, and then I felt him pulling my dick and balls through my legs. I moaned, widened the stance of my legs, and came up slightly on my knees, presenting my ass to his attentions.

When he swallowed my ball sack and began to roll my balls inside his mouth, I rewarded him with another deep moan. He was holding and slow-stroking my cock with a hand.

"Do your young men give you this attention? Has anyone else done this to you after a first fuck?" he asked.

"No," I answered with a groan. He moved his mouth to my cock and then my hole. Back to my cock and then my hole. And I ejaculated for the third time.

I heard him fiddling with a condom packet, and then he was straddling my hips and riding me in long, deep, slow strokes. He had his fists pushed into my shoulder blades, bearing the weight of his body, but then he slipped them around under my chest and arched my back up to him. I turned my face toward his and we kissed for the first time. He tasted of tobacco and brandy. He was palming my chest, rubbing both nipples between thumb and forefinger, and rocking my body back and forth on his cock.

This time I felt him ejaculate into the balloon of the condom inside me, and I sighed and murmured, "Thank you. The second time was even better."

"You are a sweet fuck," he muttered back in a matter-of-fact voice. "I leave you now for a while. I have to build up again after two and there is work to be done. If you want me to finish you, stay here and I'll be back."

I laughed at that-at the inference that I was some sort of project that needed to be finished well. But I stayed, on my belly, luxuriating in the pleasure I had gotten out of his mature, experienced body. And from his bull's cock.

I looked out over the pool. Musa, the small bell boy was riding the prone figure of the Northern European now. And nearby, two men were entwined on a lounger. I couldn't tell who was fucking whom. They were both Europeans and were young and thin. I decided they must be a couple, retreating here to do what they couldn't so openly do at home.

A young man was cleaning the pool. He had a gorgeously well-developed body and was wearing a skimpy black bathing suit. His body was a nutty brown, and he had a full head of black, curly hair and a Fu Man Chu mustache. He wasn't nearly as hairy as Karamat was, but there was a trace of matting under his pecs and a thin line running down to the waistband of his swim suit, which dipped down in front, permitting pubic hair to rim the waistband. When he raised his arms, though, there was a good bit of hair in his pits. His torso was tightly sculpted, and the veins popped out on his powerful arms.

I dozed, thinking of him. When I woke, not knowing why I had done so, Karamat was sitting beside me again, massaging my body with his strong hands. The Northern European and Musa were gone, as was the pool man. The young European couple were in the pool, one belly up to the side of the pool with his arms splayed out over the pool deck tiles. His partner was embracing him from behind and they were kissing-and, I presume, fucking.

"You are awake."

"Yes."

"You have not run from me."

"No."

"We know each other well now. Two fucks and we are friends. Now we will be lovers, yes?"

"Yes, please."

"I fuck you know like a Turk fucks his lover."

He stood and I watched him roll on a condom-the third one. He turned me on my side on the lounger, away from him, and then stretched out behind me. He pulled my body into his, and I turned my face to his, and we kissed, as we both explored each other's bodies to the extent that we could reach. He pulled my pelvis into his groin and reached down and pulled my calf up so that my leg was bent. I felt the knee of his leg cover my other leg and pull it back a bit.

And then he was slowly entering me-and entering, entering, entering. One of his hands went to my cock and encased it and he slow fucked and slow stroked me to my promised fourth coming, his third, and to, indeed, what was the most sensual fuck of the three.

"You must lock your door tonight," he whispered in my ear.

"Why? I've heard that Cyprus is perfectly safe."

"If you do not lock your door, you may be attacked and raped."

I didn't lock my door that night.

In the darkest of night, I felt the weight of a body on my chest. And hands encasing my head. And a hard cock presented at my mouth. As I sucked, I ran my hands up onto his chest. Nearly hairless, trim but heavily muscled. Young, virile. The cock sweet in my mouth. Rock hard, but not especially long or thick. It wasn't Karamat.

He kneed my legs spread and pushed his knees underneath my buttocks. As he entered me, he leaned down over me, and we kissed. The silky smoothness of a mustache. I tongued his chest as he pumped me and ran my tongue up into his hairy pits, sniffing and appreciating the maleness of him, his musky scent.

He came inside me and I realized he wasn't crowned. I didn't care. I wanted all of him. I regretted he had come so fast. But surprisingly he didn't soften. Young and virile. He turned me on my belly and rode my ass until we came together-me for the first time, he for the second.

Laying full length on me, he spoke for the first time, in a whisper. "Sorry. I saw you at the pool-with Karamat. I wanted you too. You did not lock your door. I begged Karamat, and he said I could have you. He told me that I was his gift to you, that he fuck you tomorrow again."

"He didn't ask me. You must be punished, I think," I whispered back. "Lay on your back, or I will complain to Karamat."

We changed positions and I rode his cock into the dawn, as he gripped and spread my buttocks with strong, pool man hands-to open me for the repeated invasion of my spread hole with his ramrod cock.

* * * *

"Pottery? You want pottery? And you want to know if I know where this piece was made?" Karamat turned the coffee mug I'd given him over and over in his hands. He was smiling a funny sort of smile. "Sure, I know this pottery. It's from Kemal's. On the coast west of Kyrenia. I'll call and have them send a man to drive you there, if pottery is what you want."

"You know what I want, Karamat, but pottery is what is paying for this stay at your hotel. It isn't really necessary for you to get me a driver. I can get a taxi."

"No problem; they want to send a car for you," Karamat said. He couldn't seem to lose that lopsided grin. "I'm sure they will enjoy serving you."

He went into the office of the hotel to make a telephone call, and I went back to my villa to rest until the driver came for me.

It had been a tiring day. I hadn't gotten much sleep and was gloriously sore, but walking down in the castle harbor town of Kyrenia had helped me exercise muscles back into shape and deaden any pain I had experienced. I just wasn't used to so much sex of that intensity-and from two different men-in that short a period.

In Kyrenia I had moved from one souvenir or gift shop to another, seeking local-made pottery Avis would like. There were some vividly painted scenes of ancient Turkish warriors done on large display plates that I found were made in mainland Turkey, and I managed, with the help of the shop here, to order a shipment of those by telephone to be shipped directly to Atlanta.

But other than that, there was disappointingly little. That was with the exception of the unusual coffee mug I had found. It was of a tan earth color, rough pottery on the outside, with geometric designs etched into it while the pottery was still wet-obviously by hand or a stencil roller but by a deft hand. Only the inside and lip of the cup were glazed before firing. I had found a few bowls of this and a set of wine glasses and a water pitcher, as well. I'd only bought the cup, though, so that I could show it to Karamat. The shopkeepers I'd asked concerning the origin of the pottery were only willing to obtain it for me. But I didn't want a middleman on the payroll or I wouldn't have come here directly.

I was dozing in my room when the telephone buzzed and Karamat was summoning me to take my ride to the Kemal pottery.

As I walked up to the hotel office, I saw that Karamat was talking with a young Turk, who, it seemed like all of the Turkish men here, was handsome, dark and sultry, and built like an athlete. He had a slightly thugish look to him, like anyone who went with him would be used roughly, which gave me chills. He also cast on me the same speculative smile I'd seen others do since I came to Cyprus.

"This is Rafat," Karamat said. "He will take you to the pottery." They had been speaking with their heads close together as I approached. They both looked up and gave me brilliant smiles when they sensed I was there. They both were in shorts and droopy athletic Ts, with deep cuts in the armholes, showing thick matting of black hair in their pits, and curly hair cascading out of the dip in the neckhole. Such revealing wear seemed to be the casual apparel of choice in Turkish Cyprus. They both filled their clothes out very well-the mature, Zeus-like Karamat and the young, Apollo-like man talking with him.

Rafat and I were soon scuttling along the coastline on a bad road in an old Holden with so many knocks and squeals that I had to concentrate hard on what the young man was saying. I was watching his hands on the wheel, although his hands didn't spend much time on the wheel. He was being very expressive with them. They were good, sensual hands. The fingers were long, with curls of dark hair above the knuckles. He touched me a few times while we were driving and he was gesturing and even ran his hand down my chest once when he had flung his hand out, protectively, when we had taken a curve in the road hard.

"You stay at Karamat's hotel, yes?"

He damn well knew I was staying there. "Yes."

"Karamat, he treats you well, yes?"

"Yes, he's very hospitable." I knew what he meant by that. He'd put his hand on my thigh and squeezed as he shot me a brilliant, knowing smile. "And he's a master at what he does." I wanted Rafat inside me, and I wasn't going to be in Cyprus long enough to beat around the bush about it. He'd left no question what he wanted from me.

"You like hairy men?"

"Yes, very much so. And men who take what they want."

"Good," he said, flashing a big smile at me. "Karamat said you were very enjoyable."

Rafat let me off at the front door of a squat stuccoed building with picture windows on either side of the entry. Bars covered these windows. It had the look of an old, disused army barracks about it. Rafat urged me to go on in and look around in their showroom while he parked the Holden behind the building.

I entered the showroom to find, standing behind a counter-Rafat. Although he was quick to point out that he wasn't Rafat, but Selat, the twin of Rafat.

"Please, please. Look around. Uncle Karamat told us what you were interested in-and what you were looking for in pottery wholesale. He say you like the half glaze ware."

"Yes, that intrigues me. I don't think I've ever seen any pottery like that. It's just glazed on the inside." "Uncle" Karamat, I was thinking. He hadn't told me they were related. Perhaps that was why he'd given me such a sloppy grin when I'd shown him the coffee mug.

"Yes. That makes it cheaper. But we find many tourists like it-even better than our more artistic, full-glazed pottery. But, please, look around. We make you a very nice deal. Yes, very nice indeed. Uncle Karamat tell us what you like."

I knew he wasn't talking about pottery any more, not really. I felt myself going hard-especially as Rafat had just entered the showroom. Seeing the two of them together was very arousing.

As the two talked to each other in whispers and undulged at furtive looks at me, I wandered around the store. The half-glazed pottery, indeed, was very enticing-as were many of their fully glazed and decorated pottery pieces. They had pottery with vine leaves either etched into the raw clay or painted on the surface that would, I believed, sell very, very well in Buckhead. Yes, very enticing. I looked at the twins, standing there and smiling at me, proud of their work and hopeful of its sale. They were very enticing too.

"Are these all the samples?" I asked. "Any more somewhere?" I couldn't hide that I was looking for some place more private than the showroom.

"Yes," Selat said, with a broad grin. "We have more. And a very special collection in the back. You come back and see?"

"Yes, please," I said. Selat ushered me toward a doorway covered with a beaded curtain. I saw that Rafat was at the shop door, locking it and turning the sign to "Closed."

The room Selat led me into was not large. Three sides were lined with shelves, containing pottery. A double bed was set against the fourth wall, between two shuttered windows.

My eyes went to the double bed and lingered there.

"Selat and I take turns sleeping here at night," Rafat said. "For protection of the shop. We also fuck here."

I turned my gaze toward Selat, being slightly embarrassed that the young men were so openly hitting me and were so assured. Of course, I had given them every reason to be assured.

"Perhaps this pottery will interest you," Selat said, as he led me over to one wall.

Arranged on the shelves, using the half-glazed technique were a dozen or more cups, bowls, and pitchers.

"Pick one up," Selat said. "Examine it closely. I think that you'll like it." Rafat was standing close behind me. As I picked a cup up-and then almost dropped it as I saw the images etched into it-I felt his hands go to my hips.

I shuddered. The cup was covered with homoerotic art. Like ancient Greek urns, men straddling men on couches. Fondling, sucking, fucking.

I picked several pieces up, all the same, plus some of stylized hard penises.

"You find them interesting?" Selat asked. He was very close to me now too.

"Very interesting, yes," I replied. "But not really what I can sell in Atlanta-at least not in my shop. You have much more-out in the showroom-that I could use, though."

"But perhaps we have something you would want, could use, more privately," Selat said in a low voice. "We can give you a very good deal-a very good deal for someone who was a good friend of Uncle Karamat's-and, we hope, of Rafat and me too."

Rafat had his hands running up under my T-shirt, to my pecs.

"Let's see what kind of deal we can make," Selat said. He took the bowl I was looking at out of my hand and gently returned it to the shelf. Rafat was pulling me over into the center of the room.

"We fuck you now, yes?"

"Yes," I answered breathlessly.

"Both together?"

"If you want."

They sandwiched me, Selat in front and Rafat in back. They had already shucked their own Ts. Rafat pulled mine over my head as Selat unbuckled my belt, unzipped me, and let my shorts hit the floor. Rafat was embracing me from behind and moved a hand to cup my chin and turn my face to his for a deep kiss. Selat pulled my briefs down off my legs and he followed them down, going down on his knees and taking my cock in his mouth. Rafat went down on his knees too and he was working between my crack with his mouth and fingers.

I had to grab their heads, Selat's with one hand, and Rafat's with the other, to maintain my balance.

But I didn't have to do that long. The two stood, stripped off their own shorts and briefs, and began working me between them. I could feel both of their cocks between my thighs. For a brief moment, I thought they were going to take me, together, standing there. I had given permission for that, but I'd thought it would be something we'd work up to, if it happened. Selat had already raised one of my legs against his thigh with a hand under my knee. I felt he was on the cusp of pulling the other one up and settling my channel on his cock-with Rafat's right there as well. I moaned, scared, but half wanting it. But when I was sure that was going to happen, they were moving me, toward the bed.

They had me on my back at the end of the bed and were tag-teaming me. Taking turns holding my legs spread and fucking me and feeding me their cocks while kneeling above my head. Every five minutes or so they would switch positions. They occasionally showed concern that maybe I had had enough. They didn't volunteer to stop altogether, but they assured me that they could finish me if I was growing weary. Fascinated by being taken by hunky twins, though, I encouraged them to fuck on.

One of them pulled out of me-I no longer remembered which was which-but rather than switching, the one at my head started working underneath me, until I was full on top of him and his hard cock was pushing up under my ball sack. The brothers worked together to get his cock inside me and then he crossed his arms tightly across my chest, right under my pits, which drew my arms up to where they were effectively trapped.

Then what I had both feared and hoped for before was happening. The other twin was working his cock inside me on top of his brother's. I panted and whimpered, surprised that I could take them as big as they'd both gotten.

"Can you manage?" a voice in my ear whispered. "I can tell Rafat-"

"No, please. Don't stop. I've never . . . but I want . . ." So the one on top was Rafat. The one under Selat.

And then Rafat began to pump, and I zipped right to heaven. I was spouting in no time and Rafat pulled out of me long enough to lean down and clean my cock with his mouth. And then he was inside me, pumping again. Selat was moaning now as well and the brothers kissed over my shoulder and then each, in turn, kissed me.

When I opened my eyes, there was another man in the room. A near duplicate of Karamat. He pulled his T over his head. The same hairy barrel chest.

"Our father, Kemal," Rafat said. "This is his shop. He can give you really, really good deal."

"Yes," I answered. I knew what he was asking.

Rafat's face and cock disappeared and now it was Kemal staring down in my eyes, Kemal entering me, Kemal-thicker than Rafat-pumping me on top of Selat's buried cock.

"Kemal says you are A number 1 good fuck," Selat said afterward, sitting beside me on the bed I was still laying on, panting and recovering. Selat was smiling broadly.

"The three of you were great too."

"Kemal, he doesn't speak English. So I ask for him. He says you can have two boxes-like that one over there-full of the pottery of your pick, for free-you just pay shipping and handling."

"That sounds good," I said. My mind was contemplating how much I had made on that marvelous fuck. I felt the need to close the deal before these guys figured out that I should be paying them for the cocking.

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A former SR71 jockey, journalist, diplomat, and spy who now writes novels in the mainstream in another, entirely different, facet of his life. Between his two pen names habu and Dirk Hessian, the author has more than 100 GM titles on sale in the marketplace. For illustrated GM stories by habu and his writing partner, Sabb, and their combined writings under the name Shabbu, visit www.barbarianspy.com. Habu's extensive collection of e-books can be found on Amazon, B&N, Allromanceebooks.com, Smashwords, KOBO, etc. He also writes and publishes GM historicals under the name Dirk Hessian.